Chapter Eight
Hunter
I’m not sure why I texted Lucas. I’m even less sure why I’m calling him, but I don’t hang up. I just…want someone to talk to, and that person seems to be him.
It’s been so long since I really talked to anyone that I’m not sure I even know how to do it anymore, not about anything real. But then, that night on the roof, Lucas and I did well with ignoring most of the heavy shit, so maybe we can do that tonight too.
“Well, this is unexpected,” he says, voice slightly raspy.
It’s after midnight, something I thought about before I texted but slipped my mind when I called. “Were you asleep?”
“Is sleep-texting a thing?”
I roll my eyes. “I meant before I texted. I’m pretty sure you know that.”
“Me? Never.” I hear the smile in his voice. “And no.”
“You sound tired. I shouldn’t have called. It’s pretty fucking weird that I did, actually.” Jesus. What was I thinking?
“I don’t think weird is a bad thing,” he says, surprising me.
“You don’t think this is a bad thing?”
“No. We’re allowed to talk. We probably understand each other more than most people.”
I frown, not sure how losing a brother and what Ellis was to me translates to us understanding each other. “What do you mean?”
“We both know what it’s like to live in Ellis’s shadow.”
His words steal my breath. That’s not how it was supposed to feel being with Ellis.
I’ve never told anyone, not even myself, really, that somehow that’s how it felt being with him.
Guilt eats me alive, biting into my skin, gnawing on my bones.
But that’s exactly how it felt because he was so good, so perfect, the best son, student, friend, boyfriend, football supporter a person could be, but it was so damn hard living up to his expectations.
I always felt like if I fucked up, if I wasn’t good enough, I was letting him down.
“Did I say too much?” Lucas asks.
“You didn’t say anything that isn’t true.” The words feel like a betrayal, like I should have swallowed them down and buried them wherever they had been before Lucas dug them up.
Lucas gets it. Maybe even gets me.
“Tell me about your first photos,” I ask him again.
That’s the reason I called—we lost tonight, and I played like shit.
If I can’t get it together, the Pulse won’t keep me, and why would they?
I’m not the same player they signed years ago.
Still, knowing that doesn’t make me want to talk about it.
Football is all I can think about most of the time, but last week, talking with Lucas was a distraction, something I desperately need again.
“Mom got me a camera when I was six. Not the greatest quality, but I took photos of everything and anything and thought they were gold, which of course they weren’t.”
I chuckle, thinking about a young Lucas finding his joy that way. It’s how I always felt about football.
“The first time I really fell in love with one of my photos, I was ten. We were outside. It was a warm spring day. It was me, Ellis, and Mom. I had an upset stomach that morning, and Ellis brought me chicken soup for breakfast. He was good with stuff like that, ya know? We fought like crazy, but when it counted, he was there.”
A few more pieces of my heart break off, making me wonder if eventually the whole thing will be a pile of rubble in my chest. “Yeah…he was.”
“Anyway, I started feeling better, so we went outside. Ellis was being nice to me because I’d been sick. Dad wasn’t home, and things were always better between us when Dad wasn’t home.”
I’d seen that over the years. It’s hard to focus on anything other than Coach Blake if he’s in the room. He commands attention, and everyone wants to make him happy…everyone except maybe Lucas.
“What did you take a photo of?”
“Of Mom and Ellis. He was picking a piece of grass out of her hair, and she was smiling. I don’t know what made it so special. I think I just caught the right angle, the right light. It felt like a masterpiece to me. I was so proud of it.”
“That’s the photo in the hallway.” It had been there since the first time I went to the Blakes’ house and was still hanging there the last time I’d gone.
“Yeah. She loves it.” There’s a softness to Lucas’s voice that he doesn’t often have when talking about other people, but it’s often there when he mentions Abbie.
“I think that’s when she realized I have talent.
She used to try and get Dad involved in my photography.
He never had any time for it. He was still pushing football on me, and though I still played, I complained about it and never practiced. We always fought about it.”
The pain of what he’s saying hits the bull’s-eye in the center of my cracked heart. The way Coach Blake treated Lucas… “I’m sorry I never said anything.”
There’s a short pause before he says, “It wouldn’t have changed anything. Mom tried. Hell, I think at some point even Ellis tried. I betrayed Dad when I didn’t love football, and once you betray Ellis Blake Sr., there’s no going back.”
Fear slithers through my veins, making my whole body feel sluggish.
He’s right. Of course he is, and this conversation right now feels like a betrayal of Coach Blake, just like it is a betrayal of Ellis.
Their father will never understand me talking with Lucas like this, not after who I was to Ellis and what I owe him.
“What are we doing, Lucas?” I ask, wondering if this feels both heavy and light to him as well. Like it’s too much, too wrong, a weight to bear, while also easing some of the tension I always carry in my shoulders.
“Talking.”
“You know it’s not that simple.” Unless, to him, this is something different than it is to me. Maybe he’s just passing the time with these conversations.
“Do you want to stop?” he asks, the question hanging in the air between us.
I hear him breathing, wonder if he hears me doing the same.
Say yes. It should be so simple to say yes, but the thought leaves my skin chilled.
“No,” I let the truth free. It’s a strange feeling, like lately I’ve kept so much of myself trapped inside, but that one word escapes, taking some of the pressure inside me with it. “Do you?”
“No,” Lucas answers. “You should know I’m a selfish person, though. I take what I want, regardless of the circumstances.”
“That’s not true.”
“Come over tomorrow.”
“I have practice.”
“It’s Tuesday. You forget I know how this works.”
Tuesdays are typically our day off so we can rest, recoup, and have personal time.
“Okay. Text me your address.”
When he says, “Sweet dreams, Hunter,” it sounds like he’s smiling.
“Sweet dreams, Lucas.”
Surprisingly, when we get off the phone, I fall asleep.
*
When Lucas messaged me his address, he also said to come over at nine for breakfast.
He lives in a condo building in West Hollywood. While most of the time it’s easy to blend in in LA, I don’t want to risk being seen going into Lucas’s building, so I wear a baseball cap, low above my eyes, and a simple pair of black track pants and an athletic shirt.
I use the intercom to call up, and Lucas lets me inside.
My heart raps against my chest the whole time, as if I’m doing something I shouldn’t.
Really, can’t Lucas and I be friends? We’ve been practically family for most of our lives, so why would it matter if I go see him?
But something about this feels illicit, like I’m breaking rules or doing something taboo, even though it’s just having someone to talk to.
That’s all this is. Someone to talk to, someone who gets it, gets me.
I take the elevator to his penthouse apartment.
My chest is still tight when I step into the hallway, but some of the pressure I’ve carried all morning is starting to dissipate.
I knock on the door, and seconds later it opens, Lucas standing there in a black tank top and gray sweats, his feet bare.
He’s wearing a chain necklace and rings, and one arm has a sleeve of tattoos.
He had a few when Ellis was still alive, but not this many.
Even back then, his parents had complained about them.
I’ve never thought much about tattoos—they aren’t really my thing—but they fit Lucas.
“Hey,” I say, and he grins, then rolls his eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing. You just look like you’re trying to hide.”
“I am trying to hide.” I step inside, and Lucas closes the door behind me.
“Why? I’ve literally known you since I was thirteen years old. Are we not allowed to be friends?”
He’s only saying what I was thinking moments ago, but still, it makes my stomach tighten and the back of my neck prickle, like I’m subconsciously considering… But I’m not. That can’t be. My head is just all over the fucking place right now. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be here at all.
“We can be friends,” I say. “I just…don’t want more noise, ya know?
” I already have enough, and the loudest will be Coach Blake.
He’ll find a reason why it’s wrong for me to be spending time with Lucas, but somehow blame him.
I’ve seen enough of Lucas getting blamed for things that aren’t his fault, and I don’t want to be the source of it.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, his tone wistful. “Come in. Make yourself comfortable. I’m cooking.”
As soon as I breathe in, I notice the scents of breakfast foods permeating the air. “You’re cooking?”
“Did you expect me to pull breakfast out of my ass?”
“You know, you don’t always have to be such a dick.” I follow him to the kitchen. The living room, dining room, and kitchen space is huge, an open concept with windows along one wall, facing the Hollywood Hills.
“Are you telling me not to be myself? That’s not nice.”
“No. I’m telling you not to always act.”
“Who says I’m acting?” He quirks a brow, which peeks from under the blond hair on his forehead, and for a reason I can’t explain, my pulse skips a beat.